Dear Friend,
They ask you what you want to leave behind when you die. A woman might say her children but I always saw the process of rearing a child as a thought experiment. Interesting in theory. Instead, I wanted to leave behind a mystery.
These letter are supposed to be that mystery. Clues perhaps for you to piece together. But a life cannot be torn up like words on a sheet of paper. I was supposed to lie in these letters, but instead I spoke too much truth, because with only strangers to read them, the truth were struggling to be freed from within the confines of my zippered and buttoned-up mouth.
What truths are you keeping, friend? Perhaps you can spill them on these pages too. On a lonely road years ago, someone picked up a handful of letters for a woman who wrote to young men in the war, men whose lives were changed by her care. I've written my share of letters. Sometimes, when I choke on the words, it is only the pen that is free to speak. I've written letters and letters and now, the friends I have who are closest to me are the ones who have written back.
Maybe I'm not as mysterious as I claim. I am just a lonely human being, who likes to write words down instead of speak them out loud. As a child, I did not have the courage to speak thoughtlessly. Everything had to be perfect before I opened my mouth. And then, rusty and out of practice, my voice wavered in the open air. As the years passed, I am perhaps a little braver and a little freer. But I still prefer to hold my tongue lest it betray me.
When I die, I will leave behind a handful of letters, a computer full of false starts and fragments of poetry, and a shelf overflowing with books that have been my world for so long.
When you build a mystery made out of a life, do not think you will ever solve it.
Sometimes, you have to leave the world hanging,
Mayumi
They ask you what you want to leave behind when you die. A woman might say her children but I always saw the process of rearing a child as a thought experiment. Interesting in theory. Instead, I wanted to leave behind a mystery.
These letter are supposed to be that mystery. Clues perhaps for you to piece together. But a life cannot be torn up like words on a sheet of paper. I was supposed to lie in these letters, but instead I spoke too much truth, because with only strangers to read them, the truth were struggling to be freed from within the confines of my zippered and buttoned-up mouth.
What truths are you keeping, friend? Perhaps you can spill them on these pages too. On a lonely road years ago, someone picked up a handful of letters for a woman who wrote to young men in the war, men whose lives were changed by her care. I've written my share of letters. Sometimes, when I choke on the words, it is only the pen that is free to speak. I've written letters and letters and now, the friends I have who are closest to me are the ones who have written back.
Maybe I'm not as mysterious as I claim. I am just a lonely human being, who likes to write words down instead of speak them out loud. As a child, I did not have the courage to speak thoughtlessly. Everything had to be perfect before I opened my mouth. And then, rusty and out of practice, my voice wavered in the open air. As the years passed, I am perhaps a little braver and a little freer. But I still prefer to hold my tongue lest it betray me.
When I die, I will leave behind a handful of letters, a computer full of false starts and fragments of poetry, and a shelf overflowing with books that have been my world for so long.
When you build a mystery made out of a life, do not think you will ever solve it.
Sometimes, you have to leave the world hanging,
Mayumi
